


destiny's just a word

by AshDoesFandom



Series: First Officer AU [1]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Lower Decks (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Banter, Beckett is very Chaotic and has Trauma, Bisexual Beckett Mariner, Brad is very Tired and Stressed, C-PTSD, Canonical Character Death, Captain Boimler, Enemies to Friends, F/M, First Officer AU, First Officer Mariner, Flirting, Gen, Humor, Not Beta Read, Post Season 1, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Relationship, everyone is vaguely queer, mentions of The Dominion War, minor crack, season 1 AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:15:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27067750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AshDoesFandom/pseuds/AshDoesFandom
Summary: Brad takes one look at her unbuttoned collar, nonregulation boots, and unkempt hair and sighs. “Captain Freeman recommended you?” his voice is disbelieving.“That’s the word, my dude.” Beckett leans back, eyeing him over the half empty glass of whiskey she’s been nursing. “Captain Brad, take a seat,” she says, in her Serious voice.Captain Brad sits across from her. “It’s Captain Boimler, actually.”“Brad’s fine.”His eye twitches.
Relationships: Beckett Mariner & D'Vana Tendi, Beckett Mariner & Sam Rutherford, Brad Boimler & Beckett Mariner, Brad Boimler/Beckett Mariner
Series: First Officer AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1994563
Comments: 24
Kudos: 67





	destiny's just a word

**Author's Note:**

> hi welcome to bath & body works

It’s a sexy, sexy day when Beckett gets her promotion to the _Cerritos_.

She’s been a lower decks officer on the _USS Vulker_ for six slutty years and it’s been the closest thing to paradise that she’s experienced since that time Marvin tried to snort Dorito dust and ended up summoning an ancient wish giving god when he sneezed it out on an alien substance Dr. L’Vertiss was analyzing as a possible cure for the parasites that were infecting the Academy.

Being a lower decks officer meant three things: contraband, causal hookups and constant disrespect of Starfleet Protocol. Everything Beckett wanted in a career. Fortunately, the _Vulker_ was the bottom of the barrel when it came to starships, so they weren’t exactly looking too close to her record. Which was fine by Beckett, who was trying to fly under the radar ever since her mother had demoted her so hard, she’d ended up on a whole other ship, quadrants away from the _Cerritos_.

Thanks Mom.

So anyway, it’s a sexy, sexy day when her mother calls her, mainly because she’d just gotten out of alien jail and gotten a cool tat out of the deal, but also because she hasn’t heard for her mother in a while and, okay, maybe she misses her just a little bit. Even if she’s probably calling for Not Good Reasons.

Beckett flips her comm open and steels herself to get yelled at for whatever.

“I’m retiring,” are not the words Beckett is expecting. She squints suspiciously at her comm, vaguely concerned that a shapeshifter has replaced her mom.

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes I am.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re not.”

“Beckett—”

“You _love_ being Captain and sitting in the chair and telling Ransom to stop giving himself sexy eyes in every reflective surface! Why would you retire?”

Her mom pinches the bridge of her nose, looking tired. “This is why I wanted to tell you in person—”

“Tell me _what_ in person—”

“—Shaxs is dead.”

Beckett stops walking. Blinks down at her comm. Once. Twice. “What.”

“So is half the crew. This is less of me retiring and more of me…cutting my losses before Starfleet officially demotes my ass.”

Beckett’s day is slowly turning into an _unsexy_ day. “And you’re just letting them!? You’ve been a Captain for what—”

“Beck—”

“Fifteen _years_ and a Starfleet Officer for even longer! They _can’t_ demote you—”

“They can and they _will_. Look,” Mom sighs. “They’re putting together a new crew as soon as the _Cerritos_ is given the clear. There’s barely anyone left from the main crew who even _wants_ to stay after this mess.”

“What _happened_?”

“That’s classified,” Mom says, which Beckett takes to mean _hack my official report if you want to know_. “And don’t go digging for it,” she adds.

Beckett resists pouting, only because the situation is so. Weirdly serious.

“I’m not calling you because of that, however. Ransom is being transferred to the _Titan_. It’s only thanks to his initiative and Officer Boimler’s quick thinking that we’re even alive right now.”

The sound of the warp core, buzzing in the background, seems too loud, all of the sudden. Beckett swallows, feeling sick.

“Officer Boimler is being promoted to Captain. I’ve recommended you as his First Officer.”

Beckett doesn’t realize she’s laughing until she starts choking from it. A group of ensigns, clustered at the end of the hallway she’s standing in, give her weird looks before quickly vacating the area.

“That,” she says, once she’s caught her breath, “is the dumbest fucking idea I’ve ever heard.”

Mom gives Beckett her Captain™ face.

“I’m an ensign. Lower decks. Bottom of the barrel.” Beckett continues, grinning. “Not officer material.”

“Top of your class. Present in the Dominion War. Only gets demoted because she cares more about people than rules.” Mom gives a smug smile. “Perfect match for the _Cerritos_.”

There’s a weird, hot pressure in the corner of Beckett’s eyes. “ _Mom_.”

“Boimler has a stick up his ass, he could use someone who loosens him up a little. Pays less attention to protocol,” Mom adds.

Beckett shakes her head, smiling. “I’d give him a heart attack a week in.”

“I’m counting on it. At least think about it, will you? And for god’s sake, go shower. I can see the filth on you, light years away.”

Beckett laughs, but this time it’s real. “Yeah Mom, I will.” Then, “I’m glad you like. Didn’t die or whatever.”

Mom rolls her eyes. “Thank you, problem child. So am I. I’ll take to you later.”

The connection blacks out, leaving Beckett staring at her own dim reflection in the screen.

She _does_ look like shit. Maybe a shower isn’t a bad idea after all.

* * *

The letter stays in her inbox for six unslutty days before she finally clicks on it. Turns out, even though Mom is no longer a Captain, her recommendation must’ve meant _something_ because there it is, a nice, shiny, transfer request.

It’s signed _Captain Brad Boimler_ and that is where Beckett draws the line because she is _not_ working for someone named _Brad_.

 _Maybe if you had been on the Cerritos, Shaxs wouldn’t have died_ , a snide voice sounds in her brain. Beckett immediately shuts that voice down because that’s fucked up and she didn’t go through four years of Starfleet mandated therapy to still be fucked up.

(She’s still kinda fucked up, but that’s okay.)

 _Dad_ finally starts spamming her inbox—and she really wants to know how Mom got him on _her_ side, they’ve barely spoken since the divorce—so Beckett, with great reluctance, reviews the transfer request again.

It’s bullshit.

“This is bullshit,” she tells Dad.

“I know, but if I have to get one more message from your mother, demanding why you haven’t taken the position—”

“Okay, fine I’ll do it, but only because I want to see why Mom promoted _Brad_ to Captain.”

* * *

Mom either promoted Brad to Captain because he was _that good_ of a suck up or because his hair is super distracting. Either way, Beckett is two seconds away from saying _fuck this shit_ and demoting her own ass back to the _Vulker_.

He walked through the door like a minute ago and she’s already had him pegged. His clothes are neatly pressed, hair perfectly coiffed, and his hands nervously flutter around, as if he’s unsure what he should be doing with them. He can’t have been an officer longer than a few months before he was promoted Captain, that’s for sure. Beckett literally has no idea what Mom was _thinking_ when she gave him the chair.

She waves him down toward her table.

 _Brad_ takes one look at her unbuttoned collar, nonregulation boots, and unkempt hair and sighs. “Captain Freeman recommended you?” his voice is disbelieving.

“That’s the word, my dude.” Beckett leans back, eyeing him over the half empty glass of whiskey she’s been nursing. “Captain Brad, take a seat,” she says, in her Serious voice.

Captain Brad sits across from her. “It’s Captain Boimler, actually.”

“Brad’s fine.”

His eye twitches. “Officer Mariner—”

“Ensign,” she interrupts, cheerfully.

Brad pauses. Blinks. She gestures to the single pin in her collar.

“Oh. Wait. What?”

“Yeah, I was lower decks on the _Vulker_ before Captain Freeman emotionally blackmailed me into meeting with you.”

She snaps her fingers at the bartender and gestures toward Brad while she waits for the man in question to process the fact that a lower decks ensign was being offered a First Officer promotion.

It, surprisingly, takes only a few seconds before he bounces back. “I didn’t have time to look at your file,” he admits, sounding a bit frustrated. “I’m usually more on top of my work but—”

“Don’t sweat it, Bradthaniel. If you’d read my file, I seriously doubt you’d have agreed to meet with me.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You kill an Admiral or something?”

“Or something,” she agrees, mind flashing back to all of the _redacted_ and _classified_ sections of her file. The bartender places a glass of purple liquid in front of Brad and refills Beckett’s drink. Beckett salutes him lazily with her glass. “I’m more interested in _you_. How’d you land a captaincy at, what, twenty-six?”

“Twenty-nine,” he grits out, as if that still isn’t weirdly young to be that high in the chain of command. “How’d you get Freeman to recommend you?”

“Oh, I didn’t,” she flips her ponytail obnoxiously. “She called _me_.”

“Sure.”

“What, am I not ‘First Officer Material?’” she mocks, wrapping finger-quotes around her words.

He rolls his eyes. “No offense—”

“Complete offense already taken—”

“But you are the least promotable person I’ve ever met.”

Beckett _grins_. “Now you’re getting it. We got a Bridge Crew yet?”

“I—” he blinks at her for a moment. “I’m still trying to put the rest of the Bridge Crew together, but it’s been _insane_ lining up schedules and—”

“Leave it to me.”

“Wait, what?”

“That’s my job. You manage me, I manage the crew. I’m basically a glorified secretary now.”

Brad looks like he’s seeing an error screen in front of his eyes. “So, you’re taking the job,” he concludes, voice hilariously defeated.

“Someone needs to make sure my M—uh, Captain _Freeman_ ’s ship doesn’t blow up.”

“I handled it fine the first time.” He rolls his eyes carelessly, which kind of pisses her off.

She gives him a smile. Knows it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Tell that to the 567 casualties.”

His face goes very pale. An incredible feat considering his already milky complexion. She can’t tell if he’s angry or about to cry. “Shut up. You weren’t even there, how would you know—"

“Yeah, you _were_ there, so why the fuck didn’t you do something?” she hisses. All she can see is Shaxs’ scarred face in the back her head. She’d been a pain in the Bridge Crew’s asses, but most of them had been genuinely upset when she’d been transferred.

 _“You’re a pain in my ass, but you’ve got guts,_ ” Shaxs had admitted once, looking impressed, which was his way of saying _you’re fucking adopted go do 200 pushups_.

Beckett has seen a lot of death in her 26 years, but this one hurts because this is her Mom’s family. Half of them are dead and she wasn’t there and fucking _Brad_ was.

Fucking Brad is still staring at her, eyes unreadable, mouth set in a hard line. He snatches up the file and flips it open, fingers deftly shuffling through the _printed-out_ _paper_ documents she’d complied last night. “I’m overseeing ship repairs tomorrow. 0500 hours. Be there.”

“Wait _what_?” Beckett hears herself say, aware that she’s gaping at him.

“I’ll have to run these through background checks before I can approve them for transfer, and I’d like to meet with them in person before I make any decisions.”

“Dude _._ ”

“ _What_ ,” he snaps, eyes meeting hers defiantly.

“You’re seriously approving my transfer?”

“Do you not want me to?” his brow furrows in confusion.

“You called me the ‘least promotable person’ like _ever!_ I just like insulted the fuck out of you!” she whisper-shrieks. “You’re supposed to get mad and tell me to fuck off back to whatever corner of the galaxy Freeman dragged my ass out of, not _make me your First Fucking Officer._ ”

“Well I’m not. Congratulations First Officer Mariner, you’re expected to report for duty—”

“Oh _fuck you_ —”

“On the _Cerritos_ three weeks from now during her relaunch.”

Beckett is on the verge of stabbing this bastard in the eye with his own stylus. “But _why_?”

Brad pauses, halfway out of his seat, hands still clenched tightly around the file. “Why _what_?”

“Don’t be fucking coy, why are you approving my transfer, you absolute _nugget_ ,” she hisses.

“Captain Freeman recommended you.”

“Are you seriously _that much of a suck up_ —”

“The _Cerritos_ isn’t that great of a starship, but Captain Freeman is a good captain,” Brad interrupts. “We went through some real shit together. She didn’t deserve what happened to her. The least I can do is honor her last request.”

And with that, Brad stands up and sweeps out of the bar. 

“Dramatic exits are _my_ thing!” she shouts after him.

* * *

She’s pissed, mostly because Brad had the actual _audacity_ to approve her transfer, but also because how fucking dare he be an actual nice person?

Okay, maybe not a _nice_ person, she decides, as she crawls out of bed at 4 fucking thirty am. Morning people are hell spawn, but he’s a _decent_ person.

Whatever, it’s not as if she’s going to start liking him or trying to be his friend or whatever.

“If it doesn’t work out, I can get myself demoted in like two days,” she decides, out loud, tying her hair out of her eyes. Her reflection stares back at her, tired.

So of course, Brad is _annoyingly_ awake.

“Of course you’re a fucking morning person,” she mutters, falling into step behind him.

“Haven’t had your coffee yet?” he snips back, eyes glued to his data padd.

She glares at his back, but makes no comment.

By the time Beckett is fully awake and functioning, she’s already dissociated three separate times and had a mini panic attack twice.

The ship is FUCKED.

The primary hull has been _completely_ ripped apart, like something took a large bite out of the side, and both propulsion units are missing. Beckett peaks over Brad’s shoulder and gets a good look at the interior damage.

“You guys ejected the warp core?” she shrieks in his ear. “Dude that is so _badass_.”

Brad jumps and pushes her off him. “Wha— _get off me_ , what are you doing—”

Beckett snatches the padd away from him and begins to rapidly scan through the damage reports. “Shit, it’s going to take weeks before we’re back in space. What’s the ETA on getting a new core in? Oooh, we should also add reflective panels, I hear the _Enterprise_ is so bright, nothing ever gets done on there.”

Brad snatches his padd back. “Yeah, I think we can pass on that one.”

“You’re no fun.”

“Being a Starfleet Officer isn’t supposed to be _fun_ —although I do find enjoyment in managing and organizing information—”

“Oh _yawn_ , you’re a pencil pusher.”

“Did you just say ‘yawn’ out loud?”

“Do you need your hearing checked, Captain Brad?”

“It’s Boimler,” he hisses.

“Captain Boimler Brad,” she corrects, easily.

He stomps off, all huffy, but whatever. It’s not her fault Captain Brad doesn’t have a sense of humor.

* * *

It takes about a month for the _Cerritos_ to get back into working condition. Beckett would be impressed with how quickly Starfleet is able to get her back in commission, except for the fact that, well. It’s Starfleet. They’re great at what they do, even if what they do isn’t so great.

By then she’s already sent her Dad over seventeen furious voicemails and threatened her mother with six different kinds of legal action if she doesn’t “pick up her goddamn fucking comm _.”_

Mom does pick up her call and she does agree to meet with her.

“This is bullshit,” she says, after hugging the ever-living shit out of her favorite parent. “I can’t believe you’re making me do this.”

Mom rolls her eyes. It’s like looking in a mirror. “Kiddo, I’ve never been able to _make_ you do anything.”

This was probably true, but Beckett needs _someone_ to blame. “He’s worse than you. Or Dad. Mom he likes paperwork. He’s a morning person. Yesterday he asked me my opinion on _the Oxford comma_.”

Mom makes a complicated face. Beckett suspects she’s trying not to laugh. “That does sound like Boimler,” she admits, sighing. “Please tell me you’re playing nice.”

Beckett decides _not_ to tell her about the whole “I was a bitch to him because I have no idea how to grieve” deal. “Hey, I can be nice.”

“Hmm.”

“Okay, maybe I’m giving him a hard time, but come on! You could have chosen anyone to promote. Hell, you should have picked Ransom, not transferred him!”

“Ransom doesn’t have the head to make tough calls.”

“And _Brad_ does?”

Mom gives her a look that says she knows something Beckett doesn’t. Beckett _hates_ that look. “I think he knows what he’s doing when he forgets he’s in charge.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means give him a chance before you decided to drop him in a wormhole,” is the dry response she’s given.

Beckett makes no promises.

* * *

The _Cerritos_ leaves _Starbase 375_ on an uneventful day. About eighty percent of the original crew has been completely replaced, most notably, the Bridge Crew. Senior staff is now complied of Officer’s Captain Freeman had promoted before her resignation, but there’s are a few that Beckett herself has recommended. Seems like Brad had actually taken a look at the file.

Beckett takes her seat next to Captain Brad and prepares herself for the madness that’s going to commence from being First Officer on the lamest ship in Starfleet.

* * *

The _Cerritos_ has been in deep space for three boring, uneventful weeks.

The only fun Beckett has found in _any_ of it is by torturing Brad. And she’s not even trying! Beckett just has one of those personalities that rubs well-organized people the wrong way. Yes, sometimes she thrives off chaos, and yeah she does things in her own time, but it’s just who she is.

Brad doesn’t seem to appreciate _any_ of her suggestions, calling most of them _illegal_ and _dangerous_ and being all shouty about it.

He’s also a huge stickler for regulations and shit. It’s way, way worse than working with Mom. Beckett’s about to start climbing walls from the sheer boredom of being a First Officer. The only thing she does anymore is sleep, paperwork and fight with Brad, rinse, repeat.

And then she meets Lieutenant D’Vana Tendi.

The first thing Beckett thinks when she runs into the hyperactive Orion is that if Dr. T’Ana had retired along with the rest of the senior crew, Tendi could have _easily_ picked up the mantle. The girl’s a fucking prodigy, mad scientist level of genius.

The second thing Beckett thinks when she meets Tendi is _I am way gayer than I thought I was_.

“Hey, you’re Mariner!” Tendi chirps, excitedly bouncing up to her. Dr. T’Ana, who had been discussing something medical and boring with the Orion, groans and stomps off the minute she lays eyes on Beckett. Which, _rude_. Beckett didn’t want to talk to her anyway.

“Oh nice, my reputation proceeds me,” Beckett grins, brushing off her hurt. “As does yours, Lieutenant Tendi.”

Tendi’s cheeks turn a little blue.

There’s an amused snort behind her. “Already flirting with the locals, Mariner?” a familiar voice dryly asks.

Beckett’s mouth drops open. “Rutherford?”

Rutherford, who was messing anxiously with a cyber implant over his eye that he _definitely_ did not have three years ago, grins at her. “Long time, no see!” 

Tendi whirls around. “You know Mariner?”

“She used to be lower decks with me,” he explains.

“Yeah, back in the day,” Beckett agrees, examining her nails. “It was pretty badass.”

Rutherford snorts and gives her a _look_ which clearly conveys _I know why you were transferred dumbass_. Beckett gives him a _look_ back and hopes it communicates to _shut the fuck up._

“You driving Boimler crazy yet?” Rutherford asks, instead of spilling her dirty secrets.

Tendi does this cute snort/giggle thing behind her Padd. “Like you haven’t been present for his ‘daily complain about Marin—‘”

Rutherford lightly kicks Tendi who quite promptly shuts up.

Beckett frowns suspiciously at them.

“Anyway, it’s great to see you Mariner!” Rutherford continues. “Congrats on making First Officer by the way,” he adds in a tone of voice that implies that she _will_ be telling him exactly _how_ she had landed the position later.

“I guess my record speaks for itself.” Beckett smirks.

“Uh hu,” he eyes her disbelievingly. “See you at the bar after our shifts?”

Beckett sighs. “I’ll have to pass. Brad gave me so much fucking paperwork to do that I’ll never get a day off again.”

“Look at you following the rules!” Rutherford punches the air. “I knew you had it in you. I guess I’ll see you around!” He hops off the bio-bed and heads off toward Engineering.

Tendi frowns after him. “At least he still _sounds_ like himself, right?”

That’s a weird thing to say. “Huh?”

The Orion blinks up at her, startled. “Oh, you don’t know? He was in an accident. Full year of his memory completely wiped. He remembers Brad, and you, I guess, but.” She looks down, defeated.

“Oh.” Beckett feels squeamish at the sudden emotion present in the conversation. “That, uh, that really sucks.”

“Yeah.” Tendi shakes herself. “Well, enough buffer time, I’d better get back to work. It was great meeting you, Mariner!”

“Likewise, Lieutenant Tendi,” Beckett flashes her most charming grin. “See you on the Bridge?”

Tendi glances back at Dr. T’Ana, who’s impatiently glaring at them. “Yeah, we’ll see about that.”

* * *

The next few weeks go by in rapid succession. It’s either very very boring and leaves Mariner missing her life as a lower decks officer or it’s incredibly fast pace with weird shit that leaves her chasing the next adrenaline rush.

But of course most days it’s just Brad yelling at her.

“If you could have your report for Second Contact with the Diququeue’s by tomorrow morning, that would be great.”

“Uh huh.”

“Also, I need you to stop trying to pet J’viv, his culture finds it _offensive_.”

“Sure thing.”

_“Are you even listening to what I’m saying?!_

* * *

“Officer Mariner could you— _what the fuck are you wearing_.”

“Oh yeah, the Padroiques gave me this cool jacket.”

“I don’t even— _what_ —Mariner, go take it off!”

“But it’s pink!”

“It’s putting hair all over my Bridge!”

“That’s not hair it’s—”

_“Oh my god just get rid of it.”_

* * *

“What the _fuck_ was that!”

“That was me. Doing my job. First Officer stuff.”

“That was you practically starting a war with the Gorgonvians. Again.”

“Dude, their government is super corrupt!”

“That’s their problem! Stop antagonizing alien Ambassadors!”

* * *

“Why would you tell them to go fuck themselves?!”

“They pissed me off!”

“I actually can’t handle you right now. Get off my Bridge and go irritate someone else.”

“Fine!”

“Fine!”

* * *

“This isn’t working,” she tells Rutherford, snatching at his drink. He gives it up with a sigh and wearily watches her down the purple liquid.

“Maybe start listening to him for once? He _is_ the captain.”

“And that isn’t weird to you? Dude, didn’t he start out lower decks?”

This gets an eye roll out of her usually positive friend. “We _all_ started lower decks. That’s how Starfleet works.”

Beckett decides _not_ to mention that it was definitely not how it worked for her, as that explanation would include revealing that she’s. Well. A Starfleet brat.

“Besides, he’s been a Lieutenant for about a year now and he really handled the Parkled crisis really well. Not that I remember,” he adds, looking a little downcast.

Beckett wrinkles her nose. “Wait, the _Cerritos_ was taken down by Parkleds? No fucking way.” She pulls her data padd out and began tapping away.

“Please don’t hack any mission re—”

“Too late.”

“—ports. Oh _shit_.” Rutherford rubs at his human eye with one hand. “See this? This is why you’re driving Boimler up a wall.”

Beckett glares at him. “Brad needs to chill out.”

“ _You_ need to chill out,” he corrects and then winces. “Sorry, that came out mean. I mean, maybe just try being nice to him? Like what’s the worst that could happen?”

Beckett’s eyes narrow.

* * *

“Here, Jen made coffee.”

“If you’re trying to poison me—”

“Why would _I poison you?!_ ”

Brad gives her a deadpan stare.

“With coffee!” she adds, for good measure. “I would _never_ defile the gods’ nectar!”

“Ugh, _fine_ ,” he snatches at the mug. “Just please stop shouting.”

* * *

“I don’t get it!” Beckett rants to Tendi, who’s frowning down at her data padd like it holds the secrets of the universe. “I’m being like super chill for once and he’s _still_ mad!”

Rutherford, who’s doing something cool and _science-y_ to the transporter pad, glances up. “Your version of chill involves way more stabbing than most peoples.”

Tendi nods, eyes still glued to her padd. “Maybe try not challenging Klingons to duels and Boimler will calm down.”

“Uh, he challenged _me_ and then was a sore loser. Not my fault. And I bought Brad a milkshake afterwards to make up for it!”

“Boimler did say that it was unfairly delicious,” Tendi says, pensively.

“I don’t think that was a milkshake,” Rutherford mumbles.

“Point is, _why doesn’t he like me yet!_ Everyone likes me except lame people!”

“So, you don’t think Boimler is lame anymore,” Tendi inquires, grinning at her.

“Shut up, he’s the _lamest_.”

Rutherford and Tendi share a conspiring look. “Sure.”

* * *

So, Brad almost dies. And so do Tendi and Rutherford, because it seems that even though Brad is captain now, apparently the three of them are a tight little trio who’ve been getting up to no good the whole time Beckett was on the _Vulker_.

That explains a lot actually.

Anyway, there’s some Away Mission nonsense and Beckett just happens to be on the _Cerritos_ because Brad claims that she’s too _high strung_ and that he hasn’t _had enough coffee_ to _handle her._

Whatever.

Some shit goes down—again, Beckett isn’t _there_ and doesn’t bother to find out the exact details until much _much_ later—that involves Rutherford and Brad getting infected by some alien disease and suddenly Tendi is dealing with an outright war between the local Camisitites and the Federation and by the time Beckett gets their asses beamed back onto the _Cerritos_ , it’s almost too late.

Rutherford is going to be fine, thanks to his cyborg implants but Brad isn’t looking too hot which means Beckett is Acting Captain.

Fucking great.

It takes her maybe two, three days tops to settle everything out with the irate Camisitite nation and find a cure, but it all works out in the end.

“If you want a Missions Report you can have it after I’ve taken a shower,” she informs a groggy Brad. He blinks up at her from his bio-bed, taking in her disheveled hair, bloodstained shirt, and exhausted expression.

“…cool,” he mutters. “Go away.”

She scoffs at him, dragging a seat up. “I’m good here, actually.”

Brad wakes himself up enough to give her a half-hearted scowl. “Do you _ever_ do as you’re told?”

“Not really, no.” She examines her nails. “Your fault for signing my transfer.”

“So this has all been punishment? Because a good person talked you into a nice, well paying job that I signed off on. I don’t _get_ you.”

“I don’t get _you_ ,” she retorts. “Command fucking _sucks_. It was way cooler when I was an ensign.”

“But you’re really good at it,” he says, surprised. “You’re smart and badass and like way better at everything than everyone else.”

“Wait what?”

“You could have _everything_! And you’re just wasting it? Do you _want_ me to kick you off ship?”

“Maybe!”

“Well I’m not going to!”

“Why not?!”

He glares at her sullenly. “Figure it out yourself, if you’re so smart.”

* * *

“I can’t figure it out!” she snaps, resuming her wild pacing.

Rutherford, who looks like his unending patience is _finally_ , for once, running out, sighs.

(People seem to be doing that a lot around her recently.)

“Figure what out, Mariner?”

“Why did the bastard make me his First Officer?”

“Maybe he’s hot for you,” Tendi suggests, eyebrows wiggling up and down. Beckett shoves her face away.

“Shut up, no way.”

“Just ask him?” Rutherford suggests.

“I did! Like twice! First time he gave me stupid answer and second time he deflected.”

“He gave it to you because he likes you, dummy,” Rutherford says, giving her a friendly shove. “Not like that,” he adds, as Tendi began make kissy faces. “But like. He thinks you’re cool.”

“He thinks I’m cool,” Beckett parrots, unimpressed.

“You _are_ pretty cool,” Tendi agrees. “You like kick everyone’s ass and are super smart and you have street cred.”

“Street cred,” Beckett repeats, trying not to laugh. “Yeah, we’ll go with that.”

“Point is,” Rutherford went on. “He thinks you’re cool. And you know what? I think _you_ think he’s pretty cool.”

Beckett makes a face. “I do not, take that back.”

“You think it’s impressive that Freeman promoted him and it has you all pissy because she threw you off the ship, but you secretly think he’s smart and you think it’s funny that he gets all tied up in knots over protocol,” Rutherford summarizes.

“What are you, my therapist?” Beckett snaps.

“I’m you’re friend. And I think you could be his too if you tried?”

Beckett groans, dropping her face into Tendi’s shoulder. “Fine maybe you’re a little bit right. He _hates_ me though.”

“Trust me, he doesn’t hate you,” Rutherford says, grin in his voice. “You annoy the fuck out of him, sure. But he likes you plenty or he’d have gotten rid of you already.”

“So what do I do?” she mumbles into Tendi’s uniform.

“Go apologize, dumbass,” Tendi advises, shrugging her off her shoulder.

“Ugh.”

* * *

She finds him laying on one of the Observation Deck floors, a half-drained bottle of blue substance beside him. Before she can change her mind, she flops down into a seated position next to him. They’re drifting through hyperspace, creating that weird blue effect as their ship speeds past distant stars.

Beckett takes a swig of his contraband, grimacing at the bitter taste.

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” he says, staring blankly out into space.

Beckett feels surprise at his admission—yeah, this man is a bit of a wreck, but he seemed to the type of guy whose contingency plans had contingency plans—but decides not to show it.

“Congrats dumbass, neither to the rest of us.”

Brad frowns. “You _always_ know what you’re doing.”

This actually coaxes a surprised laugh out of her. She collapses backward, laying on the cold deck beside him. “That’s where you’re definitely wrong, dude. I never know what I’m going to do until I do it. Could be committing arson today, could adopt one of those turtle-puppies we saw on Karklon III last week, the list goes on. We’re Starfleet Officers, we _have_ to be flexible about shit,” she adds, turning her head look at him.

He continues to stare straight ahead of him. “I think you make a better Captain.”

Okay, so he’s in a brutally honest mood. She can chill with that.

“I think I’d get us killed in a week,” she counters, truthfully. “I’m _way_ too impulsive to be in charge. For every badass rule breaker, we need pencil pushing stickler, ya know?”

“So what,” Brad turns his head to the side, squints at her skeptically. “Now you want to work together?”

She drops her chin into the palm of her hand, leaning on her elbow. “I’m just saying, maybe I could get myself demoted back to the fucking _Vulkner_ again and maybe you resign your position and become one of those sad _sad_ researchers that get eaten by their own plants and Starfleet discovers your remains six years later when they have to find a cure for a face-eating parasite or whatever. Or,” she continues, before he can interrupt, all pissy, “ _maybe_ you need to loosen up, and maybe I need to suck up to command a bit more.”

It’s the closest to an apology as he’s going to get from her.

(He’s been kind of a bitch too, and they both know it.)

Brad turns back to the window—if you can call the entire wall being made of glass a _window_ —and sighs.

“I guess it couldn’t hurt to give it a shot,” he muses—his version of an apology as well, she notes—and then adds, “I can always demote you.”

“Ha! You couldn’t last a day in the chair without me and you know it,” she replies, smugly. “You pretend like you want constant order and everything to be perfectly organized and _on schedule_ , but I know the truth.”

“Really now?” he dryly says. “And what’s that.”

She grins, leaning in. “You’re secretly a rebel.”

“Fuck off.”

“Pffft, I saw your eye twitching during our report to Admiral Travional. You were practically begging me to spill my coffee on him.”

“Okay, I did _not tell you to do that_ —”

“Oh, and that sexy, _sexy_ moment when Tendi punched Captain Lohnersen out? You never once wrote her up for—”

“He was harassing her, I wasn’t going to write her up when he _clearly_ was disrespecting—”

Beckett dangles the bottle of ale in front of him. “Why Captain Brad. Is this. Gasp! _Contraband?!”_

Brad _laughs_ , snatching the bottle away from her. “I found it in _your_ quarters.”

“And just what were you doing in _my_ quarters, my good sir?”

“I’ll have you know I was dropping off paperwork. That you still haven’t done. From three weeks ago.”

“And you just swiped it off my desk. Tsk, tsk.”

“Confiscated it,” he corrects, still grinning up at her. “For research purposes, of course.”

“Of course.” Beckett grabs the bottle again. Takes another swig. “Surprised you’re still conscious. This shit can blind you, ya know.”

“Yeah, I know.” He grabs the bottle back. “So maybe slow down.”

She rolls her eyes because she has clearly proven _numerous times_ that she can hold her liquor but decides not the start anything. It’s weird, getting along with Brad, but not…unpleasant.

“Hey,” she says, poking his shoulder. “I’m glad you didn’t die.”

His face looks pinched. “Thanks for not _letting_ me die,” he replies, suddenly wary.

She scoffs. “Like I’d let anyone die under my watch.”

Brad sits up. “You mean like I did.”

“Oh.” Beckett blinks at him. “Oh _shit_. Dude, I was just being an asshole then, I didn’t _mean_ it.”

“But you weren’t _wrong_. If I had been smarter or—”

“Dude, you cannot _think_ like that,” Beckett grabs his shoulders and makes _uncomfortably_ steady eye-contact. “Even if _I_ had been on the _Cerritos_ when shit went down, I don’t think I could have saved him. You guys were on a time crunch with no backup and I’m surprised _Rutherford_ survived the explosion.”

Brad’s eyebrows furrow. “Wha—did you read Freeman’s Mission Report? I _told_ you to stop—”

She waves him off. “Doesn’t matter. Point is, stop beating yourself up over it. And stop letting assholes like me make you feel bad,” she adds, as an afterthought.

“Only if you stop challenging people to duels in the Jefferies Tubes,” he counters.

“Deal,” she lies. “You should get in on some of those duels, though. You seem like a sword guy.”

“I can’t even tell if that’s a euphemism or not,” he mumbles. “Are we cool?”

“The coolest,” she confirms. “At least until you see my Missions Report.”

Brad sighs deeply and flops back down. “I’m not even worrying about that right now.”

“Good, because I _definitely_ broke like _every_ protocol ever.”

“Of course you did.”

“And I told the Camisitite’s to call me Captain Mariner, First of her Name.”

“Oh my god—”

“And I challenged their leader to a duel.”

“ _Mariner what the fuck_.” 

**Author's Note:**

> they're in love ur honor
> 
> [Lower Decks Tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/asexualmorticia) Hit me up there if you want to talk Lower Decks with me or join a LWD Discord chat. :D


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